


Complications

by NoNaMe19Kaneis



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dick Grayson and Wally West are the best of friends, Gen, Homeless Wally West, Multi, Wally Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13000473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoNaMe19Kaneis/pseuds/NoNaMe19Kaneis
Summary: No one can be trusted. No one can find out, it would cause too much hurt, too many questions. But when he decides to steal some food from a well known chef, he didn't realize that it would cause a lot more complications than he initially thought. AU.





	1. He Was Hungry

The snow melts as it meets the ground. My old gray boots squish on the pavement at a leisurely pace and my eyes sweep over the busy street, deserted of people but crowded with speeding cars trying to get home before the cold sets in. The foreboding clouds cast a shadow over the houses and shops. The cold begins to settle and I quicken my steps. I'm almost there, just a few more blocks. The brave birds that decided to stay grow quiet, and a tint of blue shades the area. The snow is beginning to stick. They catch on my eyelashes and I have to blink to sweep them away. I snuggle deeper into my hoodie and tuck my hands into my pockets. My clouded breath hits my face and I pop some peppermint gum into my mouth. By now, a steady fall of white continuously covers the ground and I can tell it won't be stopping anytime soon. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the house and I jog up the solid wooden steps to the ornate turquoise door I have grown so accustomed to.

I reach up to ring the bell, hoping someone is home, only for it to swing open in a rapid swoop. The smiling face of my Uncle Nick greets me with so much enthusiasm, it's contagious. I subconsciously match his smile, the stress of the day momentarily melting away, and take off my boots before stepping through the doorway.

"Janus! How're ya doin' kid?" He gives me a hug and ruffles my hair.

The heat is stifling and I suddenly wish I had worn something lighter. I realize the heat is coming from the kitchen, along with the smell of sugar cookies and brownies. I make my way to the kitchen. "I'm fine," I lie. It seems like I've been doing a lot of that lately, I barely give it a second thought. "I'm in the 11th grade, you know?" I smooth out my hair and stand a little straighter, but I know it won't do me much good. Regardless of how close in age we are, he'll always see me as the little kid that used to follow him around when we were younger, begging him to make cookies or brownies or whatever else came to my hyperactive mind at the time. 

 

He just laughs, "Yeah, well you're still a kid to me." Rolling my eyes, I open my mouth to retort when I hear a loud BANG of metal hitting metal from the kitchen. Our smiles fall from our faces and we go rigid when we hear the shuffling of feet along with a draft of cold that wasn't there a moment ago. Going along the wall with stealth befitting of a ninja, we make our way to the kitchen door. Uncle Nick puts his index finger to his mouth in a shushing motion. He glances at the door, then back to me, and holds out his hand in 'do-not-move' gesture. I nod, having no intention of following his orders. I'm not a child, I can handle myself. Uncle Nick is 24, not that much older than I am. It's been a while since someone was bold enough to break into the mansion, the security system must be offline. I'm going to have to ask him about that later.

We're finally at the kitchen entrance and Uncle Nick is poised to attack the intruder. He rushes in with a battle cry and comes face to face with… nothing, or rather no one. The kitchen is deserted and, at a first glance, completely inconspicuous. His wallet is on the counter and Uncle Nick checks to see if his belongings are in order. I study his face for some kind of sign. It changes from stressed to relieved, to confused.

"Everything's in check." He mumbles. He walks to the window and closes it with a click. He looks around some more for any indication of missing belongings. He sighs and turns to me. "Everything's in check." He repeats with confusion.

"Hmm," I say. Something feels off though. Regardless of what I see, I can feel it in my gut that something is amiss. I close my eyes and think, think, think. My eyes snap open in realization and I ask tensely, "Where are the brownies?" He quickly walks over to the oven and opens it to reveal two empty pans littered with brownie and cookie crumbs. Uncle Nick mutters a few curses and closes the oven.

"OUCH!"

Turning our heads, our eyes move to the cabinet under the sink, to where the scream came from. The immediate gasp that came next pushes us into action. We run to the cabinet and swing it open to reveal big green eyes of a boy looking up at us in alarm with ruffled orange hair atop his head and in his face. He couldn't be more than nine years old. None of us move and I start to get fidgety. I start to notice little things, like the strange scar on his neck and the way Uncle Nick suddenly went still and the soda stain on the sink. When was the last time I took my pills? It was when I got Sherlock when he was only a pup for Christmas. Two years? Yeah, that sounds about right.

My attention is brought back to the current situation when I feel my uncle tense beside me, which automatically puts me on edge. The freckled face that was so startled before has a mask of determination. He's going to run.

"Now hold on, kid." Uncle Nick says. He holds out his hands in surrender and the kid flinches, his mask falls and he cowers against the wall. Nick quickly puts his hands down and the mask is up again. The kid kicks outward and Uncle Nick steps back in surprise. Once the little thief sees his chance, he lunges towards the window, but when he finds it closed, he looks shocked and trapped.

He picks up the closest thing he could find and points it at us threateningly. "Don't come any closer!" He blinks and licks the leftover crumbs off his mouth. He sighs deeply, savoring the taste before his eyebrows scrunch together and his grip on his weapon tightens. Uncle Nick huffs out a breath and starts to move towards him. By now, the kid's full attention is on the possible enemy. "Get away!" He screams and in a swift snatch, his weapon is gone. The kid looks like he's lost all hope.

"A can opener?" Uncle Nick asks. He takes a few steps towards the boy and I stand beside him to close the gap. The kid suddenly bunches into a ball and covers his head. He's terrified, shaking so fast he's almost a blur. Uncle Nick looks lost, like he doesn't know what to do next. He looks to me for help and nods towards the cowering, and now sobbing boy. His eyes bore into mine with a silent plea, 'Say something, anything! Please, I'm not good with this kinda thing.'

I take a breath and nod my head. I crouch to the boy's level and reach out my hand, only to retract it when he flinches. "Hey, listen. We're not going to hurt you." He scrambles further into the corner and cries harder, burying his face in his knees and covering his orange hair even tighter. Okay, new plan. "Were you hungry? Is that why you stole the food?" He sniffs and lifts his head hesitantly to look at my face. He bites his bottom lip and returns his head to his knees. I wait for his response and his grumbling stomach gives me one. "Where are your parents?" His head buries deeper into his knees. I do a once over on the boy and notice the dirt on his clothes and the fact that he has no coat and the cuts on his bare feet. "Do you have a home?" My voice drops to a whisper, so he knows this part of the conversation is only between him and I. I'm guessing he doesn't trust Uncle Nick, if his reaction and posture are any indication. The crying is dulled and only a few sniffs escape him. He lifts his head and looks at me in the eye, unblinking in challenge. I nod my head slightly in assurance, then I say, louder this time, "Are you still hungry?"

Uncle Nick sees his opportunity. "Hungry? Is that what this is about?" His posture relaxes and he belts out a deep belly laugh. The kid jumps from the sudden break in tension and relaxes in the slightest bit. "You may have broken into the best house in the neighborhood if you're lookin' for food!" My uncle is the chef. No, not a chef, but the chef. He started out when he was 16 in his hometown of Fawcett City, under the tutelage of his father, my grandfather, and became well known in the community as the best of the best. Word got out and his clients became more and more well known. Eventually cooking for Oliver Queen, Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor (not the nicest guy, if Uncle Nick had anything to say about it. In his words, "He was a complete ass. But that would be an insult to asses everywhere"), and catered for some Justice League events. Eventually, he wanted to establish a bigger base of operations for his ever growing business and settled down in Central City, claiming that he chose the place because, "It's in the middle of the country, it's easier to get around if ya know what I mean." Plus he and the Flash got together for "taste-testing parties," which I just knew to mean as eating every leftover cake, pastry and cookie they could find in the workshop's inventory. He always said that the Flash was the only man who could ever out eat him.

The kid doesn't even look remotely surprised by this news, and stands up slowly, stretching out his back. He's calmed down considerably, and although he looks like his guard is lowered, his eyes say otherwise as they flicker across the room and take everything in. I drop my voice. "Relax, we won't call the cops on you for being hungry." He turns slightly to me and searches my face for any sign of deception before relaxing for real and giving me a small smile.

Uncle Nick walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a massive amount leftover cake a customer brought to his shop from the aftereffects of a charity event. The kid goes rigid and his mouth drops open in wonder. Uncle Nick takes it the wrong way and his smile falls. "You don't like cake? Are you allergic to it or something?" He jokes and shifts nervously from foot to foot.

The kid shakes his head and mumbles "It's been a while…" Nick looks at him carefully. "How long is a while?" But the boy just shrugs and walks towards the cake.

His hands are twitching and he licks his lips. Finally, it looks like he can't wait any longer and he starts devouring it in one fell swoop, taking big chunks of it with his bare hands and standing over it as if it would disappear if he wasn't guarding it. Uncle Nick wants to tell the boy to slow down, but the desperate and awed look in the kid's eyes stops him, so he just watches worriedly. I go to the refrigerator to get some water for the boy to drink the cake down with. I can still hear him inhaling the dessert like it's a contest or something. Doesn't the kid need to breathe? He should really slow down.

Just when I'm about to speak up, the kid suddenly stops. He looks at the remainder of the cake. What used to be a cake the size of half the table is now about the size of the boy's hand. He looks around until his eyes land on the paper towel. He takes some and carefully wraps it around the cake, stuffing the dessert in his pocket before looking up to see us staring at him. He looks defensive, almost sheepish. "What?" He asks.

Uncle Nick snaps out of it. "You just ate a whole cake in less than a minute." He sounds like he's in awe, and I don't blame him. The kid eats almost as fast as the Flash.

"I have a fast metabolism," His answer sounds automatic and practiced. Uncle Nick nods and goes to the cabinet to take out a container.

"Here, this should make it easier to carry your cake in." The boy hesitantly takes it, gets the cake out of his pocket, and transfers it to the container. Then he turns around and heads for the door. We watch him go and for the first time, I notice the limp in his walk, the howling wind shaking the house, and how dark it is outside. Most of all I notice that the boy has noticed this too. He braces against the cold by pulling the sleeves of his shirt to cover his hands and hiding his mouth and nose in his shirt like a turtle. Before he reaches for the door handle, he pauses and turns to us with a slight smile that reaches his eyes. "Thanks. For the food."

Uncle Nick frowns slightly. "Kid, it's brutal out there. At least wait until the storm passes." And the orange head looks so hopeful at that moment it breaks my heart. Uncle Nick and I could tell that he wants to stay in the warmth of the house, but something holds him back and the hope runs away from his eyes.

"I can't." He turns the door handle and lets in the cold. "Thanks," he repeats, only quieter, more cautious and reserved before he steps out into the winter storm and disappears into the white. We rush to the door to search for the little orange-haired, cautious thief and find only his retreating footprints in the snow.

"For a kid with a limp, he sure does leave fast." Uncle Nick says, surprising me. Sometimes I underestimate his observation skills.

"Hmm," is all I can come up with. We stand there for a few moments before Uncle Nick states that he has to make a few business calls about Mr. Wayne's birthday party for his son, Richard if I recall, and hurries away without looking back.

I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes, reviewing what has just occurred. The situation plays out like a movie in my head, and I start to realize some things about the kid I didn't contemplate before. Like how he constantly looked at the clock, or how he rapidly tapped his hands during the few moments he spoke or, now that I think about it, how we never learned his name. Of all the questions I asked, I didn't ask the most basic one of all, even though I doubt he would've told me. The more I think about it the stranger the boy became and the greater the mystery... But most of all, the most puzzling part wasn't everything that was unknown about the boy, but how familiar he seemed, like I've seen his face somewhere before, but I just can't place where.


	2. Unlovable

"West. West! Come on, wake up buddy!" But I don't want to get up. It's cold and loud and it would be so much easier to just keep my eyes closed and ignore the nagging voice trying to wake me up. "Come on! We have to move. Now!" The desperation in my friend's voice snaps me out of my sleep induced haze. I jump from my makeshift bed and just as quickly as I open my eyes we're running through the alleyway we call our home and down the deserted sidewalk.

"Who is it this time?" I ask. I'm already ahead of him despite my late start, but he quickly catches up as snow begins to stick. "The Empire." My face pales and I almost fall on my face. The Empire... of all the lousy, no-good gangs that had to chase us down today, it had to be the Empire! I can hear the motorcycles roaring down the street and their voices yelling out, calling for blood. Our blood.

I see an escape coming up through a boarded up alleyway and I remember there being an abandoned apartment complex the next block over. "Left!" I yell, and we make a sharp turn. Jack jumps over the boarded up fence and I marvel at his ability to seemingly fly over obstacles like it's nothing. I grab his hand just in time for the gang to catch up to us.

As he's hoisting me up, one of the members takes out his bat and hits me so hard I hear the wood splinter. A slight scream escapes me before I can help it and the gang laughs at my misery. I can still hear them as we run through the alleyway and towards the abandoned building. The snow is falling heavily now and is on the verge of becoming a blizzard. Jack doesn't seem to mind and actually allows a smile to reach his eyes. His white hair matches the snow and his bare feet seem to hug the ground. We finally reach the apartment complex and I nearly collapse with relief. My leg is killing me!

That's when Jack notices the injury. All the fun and joy in his eyes fall in one fell swoop. "Sit down." He commands, and I do as he says. He lifts up the pant leg like to see the damage and he freezes the way he does when he's trying to hide what he's thinking. "What's the report, Captain?" I joke, trying to lighten the mood. He snaps out of his thoughts, smiling a carefree smile that doesn't match the worry in his eyes. "Just a scratch."

I don't believe him so I lean over to see for myself and... oh boy, that's a little more than a scratch. "I'm lucky I'm a fast healer." I mumble. "Yeah, but you need food in order to heal properly, and there's no way you're going out in this weather," he says. He frowns guiltily. "I'm sorry kiddo, you could have gotten away so much faster if I wasn't holding you back." I shake my head in exasperation. When I open my mouth to retort, Jack just holds up his hand. "Don't try to deny it. I've seen how fast you can run and that wasn't nearly the speed you were just going." My mouth snaps shut with an audible click. I fix him with a look that clearly says I don't like where his conversation is going. The teenager just sighs in response, no doubt reading me like a book. "Sorry, kid. Sorry. Just… don't slow down because of me, alright? I can take care of myself."

I roll my eyes and pick up some snow, throwing a ball of it at his face. "I'm not a kid, old man!" We laugh and the fun is back. A strong gust almost knocks me down before I catch myself with my damaged leg. My laughter immediately stops and I hiss through my teeth. Jack rushes to my side and holds me up. Is it just me or did Jack's glare towards the sky immediately silence the wind?

"Sit down." I do as he says. He presses down on the injury and I whimper in pain before a wave cold spreads through it and I sigh in relief. "Jack, your hands are freezing." I joke, but he could hear the underlying tone of concern and ruffles my hair the way my uncle used to before... everything. The smile I receive seems to say 'I have a secret you wouldn't believe' before his crystal blue eyes flash and his face changes back to his signature smirk. "I'm just naturally cold-blooded."

Jack's a terrible liar, although to the untrained eye he would show no indication of falsehood. It takes someone who's been around him long enough to tell the difference. He knows this, and I know he knows I know this. He also knows I have the same condition, so we practice our silent agreement of not questioning the validity of our statements when it comes to ourselves and our pasts on a daily basis based on this knowledge. I just nod and smile and trust my big brother figure because it's really none of my business why he could jump so high, or silence the wind, or why his hands are like ice. Just like it's none of his why I can run so far, or heal so fast or eat so much.

He helps me into the abandoned building and guides me to the floor before heading back the way we came. "I'm going to go look for some food. Please, don't go anywhere!" I nod my head and he walks out. I lay on to my back to await his return. Outside it's eerily quiet. As if the snow muffled the noise. As the seconds tick by, it gets colder and colder and my breath becomes more visible.

I tap the floor with my hands and take note of my surroundings. There's really not much to look at. There's dust everywhere, no furniture and cracks in the walls. This place is huge though. It's has at least the length of 10 alleys the width of 7! It's still not as large as my first home... wait. Stop. Don't go there. That's in the past. Keep moving forward, West.

I huff out a breath of smoke and push myself up so I'm in a sitting position. My stomach growls and I groan in frustration. "Where are you, Jack?" I mumble to myself. I can't sit around any longer so I make an attempt to stand up. To my immense surprise, I succeed and find that the sharp pain has reduced to an extreme ache, with the occasional pang of discomfort. This pleasant surprise is replaced by an unpleasant one when my head swims and my surroundings become blurry and distorted. I hold my head with one hand and lean on the wall with the other.

I immediately know what this is. No, no, no, no! Not now! I won't pass out just so my leg could heal a little faster. It's a weird thing I found out about after my first instance with no food and an injury. It seems as if my body gets its priorities mixed up so it takes away from my staying-awake-and-not-randomly-passing-out ability to compensate for my injury.

Of course, if I had food right now this wouldn't even be a problem. I stumble when I try to take a step and have to grip the wall with both hands so I don't fall. I am extremely tempted to just pass out for the next few days but it's way too dangerous when it's this cold out. If Jack saw me like this, he would either have to stay with me and put himself in danger or leave me to freeze to death. There is no way I would put him through that. There's only one option: I have to get the food myself.

I walk along the wall and make my way to the exit. I have to use some speed to get there at all but that seems to just deplete my energy more. When I get outside a horrible sight meets my gaze. A garbage truck. Picking up garbage. AKA my food. Perfectly edible scraps just being ground together in a mangled heap.

I almost break down and give up right there until I see the truck suck at a red light and there's still a house it didn't get to yet. I do the calculations in my head. Yes, I can make it. It's only four blocks away and that light stays red for approximately 30 seconds. So that's 7.5 seconds for each block. Okay. I brace myself for the pain and look around to make sure no one is watching. All clear. I shoot through the blocks with five seconds to spare, grab the lone garbage bag standing outside the house, and hide in an alleyway. I wheeze and gasp for breath while holding my damaged leg. All the healing that was done is now undone and it's on fire.

I rip through the trash looking for something, anything, that could give me some fuel. I can feel my vision darkening. Just when I start to fall to the ground, my hand wraps around something that feels like bread. I quickly stuff it in my mouth and my vision improves immediately. I look down to see what I ate. A moldy sandwich, thank God for my ridiculous immune system. I stuff the rest in my mouth. Then I look through the rest of the trash for more nutrients. All I find are some crumbs of tortilla chips and the leftovers of a mushy banana which I gratefully eat.

My leg is starting to feel better so I stand up slowly, cautiously, and put some pressure on it. I wince. Definitely not healed yet but better than a minute ago. I double check the garbage hoping that I missed something with no such luck. I need to find more food so I can be a hundred percent. I look at the houses. All the trash is taken. Everyone is at home, hiding from the storm. Buying anything is out of the question and there's no way in hell I'm going to a soup kitchen. This is the perfect time for Social Services to pick up kids desperate for shelter. Think West, think. I walk out of the alley hoping to find some inspiration. Should I steal from the houses? No, no way. Too risky. However, I find myself scouring the driveways for the absence of cars.

I stop in my tracks. Nicholas' Workshop. Home to the one and only master cook, Nicholas St. North. If there's one place with food, this would be it. He probably has so much, he wouldn't notice if a few snacks went missing from his inventory. No cars or limos in the driveway. No coach men coming down the road for lavish parties. The house looks deserted. I usually don't steal from houses. Sure, I may take some trash from outside, and maybe I lighten up some heavy pockets if I come across them, but inside houses are different, dangerous. It's a lot easier to get shot at in a home, and if the house has dogs … I shake my head to come out of the memory. I can't think like that, I have to think of how great a full stomach will be and how proud Jack would say he was of me.

I take a deep breath and walk towards the house. Before I step on the premises I search for the security cameras the mansion is bound to have. I count six. I nonchalantly make my way to the back and spot a security panel requiring a pass-code. I smile in excitement, it's the old model, one I recognize. Carefully taking off the back panel, I work my magic and within the minute the whole system is shutdown. I have less than 5 minutes before the backup starts. I see a window and try to open it. Eureka! The kitchen. I climb through and land on the floor.

Immediately, the smell of cookies and brownies hits me in the face. I find the source coming from the oven the same time I hear someone going towards the door. I see something move from the corner of my eye and I freeze as I see Nicholas St. North himself pass unknowingly by the kitchen. I hear him greet someone at the entrance. It's time to go.

I rip open the oven and pull out the cookies. They're searing hot in my hands but I don't dare make a sound of complaint. The oven closes with a BANG and I freeze for a split second before scrambling for a place to hide. They must have heard that! I don't hear the voices anymore and seeing a cupboard under a sink I go in there and close the door quietly. My heart is pounding in my chest and I'm breathing so hard you might call it hyperventilating. A loud cry makes me jump slightly and then it's quiet. The cookies and brownies are hot in my hand and I listen for any indication of suspicion or retreat.

"Where are the brownies?" My eyes widen as the voice cuts through me like a knife. They know. They know and they're going to find me. And they probably have a gun becausewhywouldn'ttheyhaveagunandOHMYGODTHEY'REGOINGTOFINDME… but before they do, I might as well die full. I stuff the food in my mouth and immediately regret it. "OUCH!" I screech involuntarily and I gasp in pain. My tongue is burning. Damn, that was hot.

I hear footsteps coming towards me and before I can react I'm face to face with Nicholas and a teenager looking as shocked as I'm feeling. For a moment, none of us says anything. I have to leave, I have to go, I need to run. "Now, hold on kid." The cook says and he raises his hands. The flinch that follows is automatic as memories of punches and kicks and hurt rush through my mind. But then he lowers his hands and I'm back. I can't wait any longer. I try kick towards his shin and duck out from under the sink. I turn towards the way I came only to find the damn window closed. Guess I've got to find another way out.

I see something in my peripheral and grab it on instinct. "Don't come any closer!" I yell. Time slows down and my heart feels like it'll jump out of my chest. I look at my surrounding and suddenly everything is heightened: the dubious expression on their faces the crumbs around my mouth, and the fact I picked up a can opener as my weapon (through the haze of panic I internally face palm at this). I lick the crumbs off my face, momentarily getting lost in my little piece of heaven before coming back to my senses and tightening the grip on my weapon.

The chef takes a step towards me and I focus my attention on him. "Get away!" I yell in panic when he continues to advance. With speed that almost rivals my own, the weapon is gone from my grasp. "A can opener?" he asks, almost condescendingly. I have nothing left. No escape route, no weapon, no hope. So, I do the only thing I can think of. Crouching into a ball I cover my head and prepare for the pain to come. It's too similar. Too similar from the world I escaped from, from the daily Hell I've been through in that damn  _house_.

Suddenly, I'm not in the workshop any more, but in my old residence. _"Get the fuck up, you worthless freak!" A punch to the gut. "Why I keep you at all is beyond me!" A kick to the head. I reach towards my mother, she moves out of the way in disgust. This earns me a slap across my face. Her sickeningly sweet voice fills the room. "Rudolph, you're getting blood on the carpet again." The man mutters in annoyance before gripping my hair and dragging me out of the house, towards the garage, increasing the barrage of attacks. "Dad! Daddy, stop! Please!" I yell. To my astonishment, the hits cease and I let myself hope. It's dashed away when he grabs me by the throat and pushes me against the wall. Getting so close in my face I could smell the vodka on his breath. "I am NOT your 'daddy'" he says in a mocking tone. "I stopped having a son the moment you turned into a freak. You are nothing to me. Everyday you're in my sight is another day of misery for me. Who would ever love you?" He spits in my face. "You're unlovable." He lifts me up and my head smashes against the gravel._

I feel someone touch my arm and flinch violently. Oh yeah… I'm in the workshop. I'm not there anymore. I'm safe. Safe. "Hey, listen we're not going to hurt you." Not safe. Nope. I scramble back and choke on heavy sobs. When did I start crying? "Were you hungry? Is that why you stole the food?" I freeze. That's when I notice the absence of pain. It must be a trick. I look up to see her waiting face before biting my lip and resting my head on my knees. She's not getting any answers out of me. But my traitorous stomach says otherwise and I scowl out of view. "Where are your parents?" She asks. I retreat into myself at that question. What is this, an interrogation? "Do you have a home?" She whispers and my head snaps up in alarm as a new thought occurs to me. What if she calls the SS? They'll know my identity right away. I look at her right in the eye, daring her to make a call. She nods her head, in understanding. A little piece of my mind wonders at that but it quickly goes away with her next question. "Are you still hungry?"

Before I can respond, a boisterous laugh fills the room, "Hungry? Is that what this is about?" My eyes move to the cook and he reminds me so much of my uncle I relax instinctively. "You may have broken into the best house in the neighborhood if you're lookin' for food!" The tense atmosphere dissipates and I'm thoroughly confused. I don't question it though and slowly stand up, seeing as how the immediate danger isn't here any longer. Living out on the streets makes me very wary of good luck though, and the minute I see an opening, I'm gone.

"Relax, we won't call the cops on you for stealing some food." I turn towards the voice. This girl is very perceptive, but the sincerity in her eyes is so much like Jack's, I decide to give this good luck thing a chance. I guess I can stay here for the now. I offer her a smile of reassurance before catching sight of the massive cake Nicholas got out. My eyes widen involuntarily and I have to hold myself back from diving in head first. It's been so long since I've had cake…

The man seems to take it the wrong way and questions hesitantly, "You don't like cake? Are you allergic to it or something?" I shake my head, still entranced at the sight in front of me. It's been a while… " How long is a while?" Crap, I said that out loud. I shrug in fake nonchalance trying, and failing to hide my excitement. Aw, screw it! I get lost in the sweetness of it all, not even bothering to slow down when I see how uncomfortable my eating habits are making the two hosts. Jack would love this!

I stop in my tracks. Jack… he would want some. I take the remainder of the dessert, wrap it around some paper towel lying on the counter, and stuff it in my pocket for safekeeping. I look up and meet the gaping gaze of my hosts. "What?" I ask. They probably think I'm disgusting, a freak. I wouldn't blame them.

But instead of disgust, the chef sounds more in awe. "You just ate that whole cake in less than a minute."

I shrug, "I have a fast metabolism."

North nods in acceptance and takes out a container. "Here, this should make it easier to carry your cake in." I take it hesitantly. I hope he's not expecting to get this back. I look at the clock. Wow, it's late. Time to go. I turn and walk towards the door. When I realize that they're not dragging me back to the house I allow myself to take my time, and to prepare against the impending cold. Turning back, I look at some of the kindest people I've met since I met Jack.

"Thanks." I say sincerely. The chef frowns, "Kid, it's brutal out there. At least wait until the storm passes."  I have to fight to not take their offer. He reminds me so much of my Uncle Barry I want to cry. Maybe, just until the storm passes, I could pretend to have people who care about me again. He seems sincere, and the girl next to him looks even more so.

But then my father's words come back to me. Words that have been proven over and over again through the course of my life with everyone but Jack. I fight back the tears and shut down my emotions. The uneaten cake in my pocket suddenly feels so much more important. I take a step towards the door. "I can't." I mumble, "Thanks." Then I step out of the house and run as fast as I could, away from the warmth, away from the false care, and the hope and the comfortable life of ignorant chefs and understanding teenage girls as my father's words haunt me in the back of my mind. "You're unlovable." I can't find it in myself to disagree.


End file.
